


The Tangled Web We Weave

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Fire and Gunpowder [7]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriages, Canon/Original Character pairing, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Established (Secret) Relationships, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5807971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What they have, this thing that thrives and burns and coils between them, is an addiction.  It’s a drug that’s burrowed deep, that won’t let either of them go, and sooner rather than later, it very well might kill them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tangled Web We Weave

**Author's Note:**

> Time skip ahead 3 months, between this piece and the last one ("Seven Days, Seven Nights"). I had received an inquiry after I posted the last piece, asking how this series exactly related to "The Flash". Hopefully I'm getting there with answering such a question. :)

“ _The meeting today resulted in some unforeseen complications._ ” Araz sounds very matter-of-fact about the whole thing, when in all likelihood it is anything but. “ _Anastazia was dreadfully upset, and I’m afraid she may have done something rash._ ”

“When did this all happen, sir?” Kyle asks, doing his damnedest to sound perfectly rational and neutral. And his damnedest is very good. No one passing him by on the very-crowded street gives strange looks or questioning stares. He appears to be just another citizen, taking a call from someone of import in his life. No one is the wiser, and no one knows that he just emerged from a basement dwelling, two blocks away, with one less bullet in his gun.

“ _About three hours ago._ ” Again, matter-of-fact. Not that there’s anything concerning about his daughter becoming “dreadfully upset”—which, by Stazia’s standards, is the emotional equivalent of World War III—that would in any way warrant immediate attention… “ _I know your duties have since changed, Kyle, but I thought, perhaps…_ ”

“I might know where she is.” He follows the prompt accordingly. “I could call Raffi, if you’d like.”

Araz gives a highly irate huff, but, as evidenced by his next words, it’s not directed at his newly-appointed “housecleaner”—and yes, Kyle really despises that pseudonym; it makes him feel like he should be wearing an apron and carrying a duster. “ _Raffi is being ridiculous about the entire matter. He said he would sooner engage a spitting cobra than deal with his own cousin._ ” Kyle smirks a little; the analogy probably isn’t inaccurate. “ _Provided you have finished with your errand—_ ”

“It’s done.”

“ _—Excellent._ ” He can hear the satisfaction in Araz’s voice like a cat’s purr. “ _Then perhaps you might track Anastazia down? I need to know she hasn’t done anything too dramatic, this close to the wedding._ ”

_Heaven forbid._ He resists the urge to roll his eyes, only because it might come through in his tone. “Yes, sir. I’ll have her home by tonight.”

It’s the last promise he wants to make, he knows, but unfortunately, it’s one he needs to make all the same. Araz will be expecting her back home, tucked away safe and sound in her bed, before tomorrow. The final fitting for a wedding dress does, regrettably, mandate the bride’s physical presence.

There is no question about whether or not he knows where Stazia is. It’s eight in the evening, she’s had the distinct pleasure of going through wedding arrangements with her father and newly-deemed bodyguard Raffi for the past three months, day after day after day after day after day, and now something has happened that warrants being “dreadfully upset”. There’s only one place she would be right now.

***

For a weeknight, the club is obscenely crowded. The group ordinarily reserved to the dance floor has spread elsewhere, couples selecting a place at random to engage, or single women taking up enticing movements that really should be restricted to a strip club scene. He works his way through a sea of half-dressed females, three of whom paw at his lapels and one of whom gives him bedroom eyes with a coy smile, scanning the room, left to right and back to left again. Then, finally, at the far corner, seated at a lone table with an untouched drink, he sees her. The modest lace dress, lilac and white print, is wholly out of place here, as are the carefully-pinned curls showcasing pearls at her ears and throat. No one approaches her, though a few men cast a look, like auctioneers examining a particularly intriguing piece of art. She sits in silence, straw pinched between two fingers while she stirs the drink and never takes a sip.

He leans forward, pressing lips to her temple, and beneath his hands, her shoulders relax, the tension sliding away, and she exhales slowly while leaning back against him. “I thought you were my cousin.” She murmurs, tilting into his kiss.

“Considering he’s described you as a _spitting cobra_ , not likely.” He kisses her again, in the same place, and then settles in the chair beside her. She smirks without much humor, then slowly brings the straw to her lips and takes a couple sips.

“Pity I don’t have fangs.” She replies. “There are a few places I’d love to sink them right now.”

“No doubt.” He eyes her drink for a moment. “How many of those have you had?”

“First one of the night, I promise.” She holds up her hand as though swearing on a Bible. “I have no intentions of waking up with a hangover tomorrow.”

Reassuring, he silently nods, and it is, because a drunk Stazia is something entirely different to handle. If he has to pour her into the car, drive her home, and present her as a drunken and irate mess of emotion, things will get very…uncivilized. He’d prefer to avoid such dramatics altogether.

“So,” he finally says, folding both arms atop the table, “what was the unforeseen complication your father mentioned?”

Stazia scoffs, loudly, and takes a much longer drink this time. “Unforeseen complication…” she mutters, finishing this one off and, much to his chagrin, signals the bartender for another one, “So glad to know Moran’s request for unrestrained access to my uterus is an _unforeseen complication_.”

His eyebrows shoot up, right about the time her second round is delivered, this time with a little paper umbrella, bright pink, for colorful decoration. “…Run that by me again?”

She gets halfway through this next drink before actually talking, but apparently the alcohol helped loosen her up, because she definitely talks. There’s much to share, from the meeting today, but the driving point that captures his attention is, indeed, the “unforeseen complication,” addressed by Moran Senior without any advance warning and without any prior discussion of the matter: offspring of this charming little union. Specifically, inquiries as to what additional funds will be contributed to the dowry in order to fully provide for (and fund) the next generation. Stazia tells him, finishing off the drink with a low sigh, that Moran is seeking funds for either the next five years or until he has a lap full of seven grandchildren—whichever comes first.

And then, seemingly done with this conversation, she stands up, too quickly, takes a minute to balance herself, and then grabs his arm. “Dance with me.”

“What, here?”

“No,” she rolls her eyes at him, a little more dramatically than was warranted, “on the roof. Yes, here. Come on. You owe me a dance. One for the road, as it were.”

He already foresees many things going wrong with this proposal. First, he’s on a timeline to get her home, put-together and preferably not manhandled. Second, they’re in public, and one can never be sure where, exactly, Araz has his eyes and ears in this city. Third, and most pressing, it’s been three months, she’s just too damn beautiful right now, and he’s only a man.

Her hands tug, more insistently, and he abruptly finds himself mere inches from her, all soft skin and brown eyes and warm breath smelling sweetly of fruit and wine. “Dance with me, Kyle.” She murmurs, and his resolve unravels.

***

He does indeed have her home before midnight, with five minutes to spare. She goes to her room quietly, without incident. He leaves for the employee private quarters, a respectable distance from the house, and retires to bed. He thinks about Moran’s demands, and every implication attached. His thoughts follow him into dreams. Horrible dreams, of a wedding night when the bride lies motionless beneath the groom, unattached to the proceedings and emotionally numb to the consummation of her marriage. He sees her face, equally emotionless, as children who bear far too much resemblance to their father gather around her, making demands and seeking attention. He sees a prisoner, a hollowed corpse, in place of a vibrant and passionate woman.

He wakes up at some unknown hour, lungs wanting for air and a dull headache pounding at his left temple. He never goes back to sleep.

***

Three or four women bustle in and out of the house, all the next day. The men either steer clear or vacate the premises entirely. Kyle amuses himself by skimming through books at random in the library, listening to the _click, click, click_ of heels up and down, down and up, the stairs. They whisper amongst themselves, the details of which are lost on him. Frankly, he could care less.

By five o’clock, the day’s events appear to (finally) be finished. The women file out after a short conversation with Araz, and the exchange of crisp cash bills for their efforts today. None of them speak English, so the subject of their chattering during the exit is left to the imagination. 

Kyle waits in the library doorway, attention divided between the events transpiring a short distance away and the copy of _The Great Gatsby_ held in one hand. He’s heard of the book, and thinks he may have even read it in school before his father cut out that part of his upbringing, but something catches his attention about the story now, as an adult, when it failed to do so years ago. A man completely transforming himself, putting forth an inordinate amount of effort to become someone else entirely, for the sake of a woman. That, in and of itself, is nothing new; if anything, he finds it a tale as old as time. What’s different, however, is that the woman in question can only be described as wishy-washy, as reliable as a hollow tree branch. Why would a man break, bend, twist, and recreate himself for a woman like that? It’s beyond comprehension.

Araz retires to his study after the women leave. It’s Friday afternoon, and most of the family have already hit the town for an early dinner and start to the evening’s activities. Kyle returns the book to it’s place on the shelf, closes the library doors, and then quietly makes his way up the stairs.

He knocks at the bedroom door. “Stazia?”

“Come in.”

Inside, the bedroom furniture has been shifted and rearranged to allow for large mirror panels set up in the room’s center, and a circular platform. Standing on the lilac stage, Stazia is a flurry of white tulle skirts and lace sleeves. The vision itself is not…horrible. The dress fits her well enough; she’s not drowning in too much skirt or some hideous design. But it’s…white. Very, very, _very_ white.

“So,” she twirls lightly, arms outstretched for the full view, “what do you think?”

She’s putting on a good face, at least, but there’s a telling grimace at the corner of her mouth that says enough. “I’ve seen worse.” He answers mildly. The closes quietly behind him, and he just as silently turns the lock before coming closer.

Stazia laughs quietly, brushing a few loose strands from her eyes. “Are you a connoisseur of wedding gowns, Mr. Nimbus?”

He doesn’t respond, but the thin amusement on his lips is answer enough. No, he could care less about wedding gowns, but he certainly knows what looks good on his lover, and this ensemble of tulle and lace and _white_ doesn’t flatter or do anything for her.

She steps down from the platform with a rustle of fabric, then turns with her back facing him. “Can you unzip this thing for me?”

The zipper starts at her mid-back, right below the shoulder blades; there’s lace angling upward to cover the backs of both shoulders and her neck, leaving a small span of skin exposed. What purpose that’s supposed to serve, fashion-wise or other, he has no idea. The cut itself isn’t terrible on her, but he isn’t a fan of these little glimpses at random points. Her skin should either be covered by black leather or left naked. He personally prefers the second option.

He deals with three small buttons at the back of her lace collar first, then draws the zipper down with a swift motion. The fabric, previously fitted to her figure, parts and lies slack against her. She didn’t ask him to, but he still peels the dress away and nudges it to the floor. Part of him waits for her to pick the dress up and hang it nice and neat, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t, and now she’s facing him, wearing nothing but silk underwear.

_Keep it together, Nimbus._ “Here,” he says, retrieving her robe from the bathroom door at record speed; he’s quite certain she either scoffs or rolls her eyes at the way he won’t look at her, but she still takes the robe and wraps it securely around herself. And then she takes two steps forward and officially enters his personal space like it’s her own. Old habits never die.

“I miss you.” She murmurs, fingertips playing lightly in his shirt. Her perfume is softly floral, mixed with something more organic, less sweet. He lets it play throughout his senses for a pleasant moment, then his fingers lift to pull her blonde waves free of a dark clip. When they fall loose, a new wave of aroma follows: old spice, the scent of her shampoo. His mouth waters a little.

“I miss you too.” He slowly answers. The touches across his chest aren’t persistent or particularly seductive—quite the opposite, actually—but he feels each one with heat prickling its way through his veins. He slides one hand through her loose strands, playing them through his fingers. _Too close_ , a voice whispers from the far reaches of his mind. _Not close enough_ , says another voice, one much darker and with hunger lacing its words.

Friday night is usually her night. She should be out on the town, dressed in black leather and sequins, dancing from club to club, tearing the streets up with her bike. Wild and free and alive. Friday night is her night to play and shine and everything in between.

Once upon a time, it was his night with her, the time when they came alive and the town was theirs and theirs alone. Hell, the _world_ might as well have been theirs. He misses those days. Being Araz’s housecleaner has given him an outlet, a way to satisfy his taste for blood, a method of obtaining his pound of flesh in a day, but it doesn’t compare with the rush of living recklessly, without care and without control. Fire, gunpowder, and life.

Kissing her ignites the spark, and the fire grows when the embrace is anything but gentle and demure. Hard. Fast. Urgent. _More, more, **more**._ Like driving the bike across streets and alleyways. Like breaking the law seventeen different ways in one single night. Like dancing when the beat is thrumming off the walls and vibrating across the floor and rushing blood through the veins like a drum. _More_ is never enough.

It’s a dangerous game. He knows it. Sometimes he wonders if she knows it. If she knows, or cares, or both, that they’re playing with fire beyond the inferno of molten attraction that boils between them each and every day. If she ever stops to think that one day, someday, her father will find out and this will come crashing down.

And then things happen. Little things. Things like the look in her eyes when they break for air, her hair mussed from his hands and her lips bruised from his kiss: a tiny glimmer of apprehension mixed in with her desire and wanting. Apprehension, when they’re in her room, in her father’s house. Then fear, for all the what if’s and things that might happen even if they haven’t happened yet. He sees it in her eyes, and he knows. She does know. Part of her does care. That part of her very well might care a lot.

But her hands slide down to his waist, pull him close; she kisses him again, the tip of her tongue gently brushing his lower lip, and he knows it doesn’t matter. Not for either of them. What they have, this thing that thrives and burns and coils between them, is an addiction. It’s a drug that’s burrowed deep, that won’t let either of them go, and sooner rather than later, it very well might kill them both.


End file.
